Writing.

It has been a while since I wrote. I’m not sure why I just stopped, but I can tell you that I started for the wrong reasons. The idea for this blog was borne out of my fear of failure. I wasn’t getting anywhere in my life. I was stagnant and growing agitated in my sameness. Everyone suggested that I start a blog and, at first, I was resistant. A blog does not simply gain a following. It takes love and effort and passion, ingredients that I didn’t yet have. But as boredom and frustration churned into fear, I gave in. The idea that I came up with for this site had potential, but no passion. I tried hard to make this into something, but that something was never going to be sustainable.

I have passion now. I have ideas now. I write now not because I want to have an entry, but because if I don’t write, it feels as if these words will rip right through me. I write because I have no other chance of seeking relief, no chance to rest, no chance to sleep. This is the mark of a writer. A writer does not write because they want to, a writer writes because they have to. I had lost that drive and no matter how desperately I may have wanted to be a writer before, I didn’t feel the urgency I do now. I can’t speak to the number of future updates, but the quality will be a lot better. You see, I’m no longer writing for everyone else. I’m writing for me.